


burning cities and napalm skies

by water_poet



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Age Changes, Apologies, Drinking, Falling In Love, Injury Recovery, Lies, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Mental Health Issues, Redemption, Self-Indulgent, Shameless, Song: Ocean Eyes (Billie Eilish), The Author Regrets Everything, but I am a slut for both these actors so, i ain't no doctor fam, i make art, look I'm not proud
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-18 20:20:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20318926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/water_poet/pseuds/water_poet
Summary: It's not just Peter who trusts him - Quentin trusts Peter back.He supposes that's what Spider-Man does. He's all about justice and truth.And yes, Peter's foolish and young but there's a melancholy kind of wisdom to him. Quentin decides that's what dying (sometimes he forgets the kid standing beside him is back from the dead, along with half the universe) does to someone.





	burning cities and napalm skies

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself I fuckin wouldn't but here I fuckin go 
> 
> Just shoot me now plz
> 
> I should have made this anon but I'm a goddam fool
> 
> Hi please note this is an AU where Peter is 18, we don't support pedophilia or underage drinking on this good Christian Minecraft server.
> 
> Also in this AU there's no EDITH cuz I didn't feel like writing it into the story, sorry.
> 
> Once again this fic exists purely because I'm so fucking in love with these people

It's not long after he meets the kid that something changes.   
  
He's been angry for as long as he can remember. The world cheated him and the bitterness has been festering like a wound for over a decade.   
  
But now the bitterness has a new face, and it's soft and naïve with big brown eyes and slightly crooked smile.  
  
And he can't bring himself to start the plan, not yet. He tells his team he needs more time but Peter insists on being disgustingly naïve and _nice._  
  
"We're doing it in New York" he says. "It'll be better on his home turf"  
  
The team agrees (they don't dare to dispute him anymore) and the plan continues in Europe with no issues. But Peter's always concerned about his friends, about the lives at stake, and Quentin finds himself waking up sick to his stomach at the thought of hurting him.  
  
"I just want to make him proud" Peter says, although the "him" tends to change. Quentin learns about the uncle and the best friend and Stark. He still flinches occasionally when he hears the name, and the yelling and fighting echoes in his mind, but Peter talks with such admiration that it softens the blow just a little each time.  
  
He realizes when Peter hugs him on the roof that it's not just Peter who trusts him - Quentin trusts Peter back.  
  
He supposes that's what Spider-Man does. He's all about justice and truth.  
  
And yes, Peter's foolish and young but there's a melancholy kind of wisdom to him. Quentin decides that's what dying (sometimes he forgets the kid standing beside him is back from the dead, along with half the universe) does to someone.  
  
So he takes him to the rendezvous but even as Peter talks, bubbling with giggles as he continues to drink, Quentin motions for the team to back down, to back away. They're getting restless now but he can't do it, not with those big eyes looking happily at his.  
  
It's one in the morning when they leave the bar, and Quentin drags Peter away as quickly as possible so the illusion can fade.   
  
Of course, Peter resists.   
  
"I can walk!" he insists indignantly, stumbling over the cobblestones. He blinks a few times and Quentin watches the world readjusting itself in his eyes. When Peter meets his gaze again, he raises an eyebrow skeptically.  
  
Peter groans petulantly, rolling his eyes. "Fine" he huffs. "But you don' needa hold my hand or anything. I'm good"  
  
Amidst the empty alleyways, Peter almost looks like a painting, ethereal, dark against the golden-orange cobblestones and brick walls.  
  
He catches Quentin staring, shakes his head, takes a step forward, and trips on the uneven cobblestone. Quentin jumps in front of him, catching the smaller form under the arms and righting him, not taking his hands off his shoulders. Peter's light, all skin and bone and lean muscle. Quentin's barely put off balance under his weight.   
  
Peter's slumped against him now, hands gripping his chest plate for support, barely conscious. He blinks sleepily up at him, grinning lopsidedly.  
  
"Peter" Quentin says sternly. It's not a warning, and it's certainly not a threat. He realizes he's not sure if he _could_ threaten the kid. He remembers the bitterness in bis throat when they'd met, the white-hot rage at this _child_ who had garnered more respect than him. 

It's still there, perhaps, a dull ache somewhere in his chest. But now there's something about the way Peter's face is getting redder under the street lamps and his breath is getting shallower that's making Quentin pause. Hell, the kid's reckless sober. Foolish, really. He would have been so easy. But he couldn't do it. Wouldn't. Not yet. Not with those big brown eyes looking almost adoringly up at him.  
  
Peter tilts his head and scrunches his nose as he squints up at Quentin for a long moment, eyes going over every line and shadow on his face. He's so innocent, soft and pale against the hard edges of the world, beaten and broken but whole, so unlike the shattered darkness in Quentin's soul. He bites his lip and doesn't say anything. After what feels like an eternity, Peter laughs softly to himself, flashing his dazed, crooked grin.  
  
"You're pretty" he says, his gaze glossy.  
  
Quentin sighs. Maybe it's true, but Peter's ready to let his guard down for a pair of pretty eyes and he wonders again what Stark saw in the kid. Maybe the same things he does now - honesty and innocence and justice.  
  
"Thank you, Peter" Quentin says. "Now can we please - "  
  
He doesn't get a chance to finish. With no warning whatsoever, Peter pushes himself up onto his toes and presses his mouth against Quentin's, crude and inelegant.   
  
For too long, Quentin doesn't move. He stand frozen like a fool under the dim Berlin street lamps as a drunk Spider-Man kisses him, gripping his chest plate tighter to hold himself up.  
  
It's almost sweet. Peter has no idea what he's doing, but he's earnest, childishly genuine.  
  
Quentin pushes Peter down and away, holding him at arms length. Guilt crashes over him in a cold wave and he feels sick to his stomach because dammit the kid's cute and trusting and it's all his doing and he wonders if he deserves the hell he's digging a path towards.  
  
Peter blinks innocently at him.  
  
"Look, Peter, this isn't - "  
  
His next words are swallowed up again by Peter's tongue, hot and enthusiastic and clumsy. His arms wrap around his waist instinctively and he's kissing _back_ like a complete and utter fool as Peter moans appreciatively. Peter tastes like cellophane-wrapped mints and peanuts and shitty tap house beer, sharp and hot and rich. Somewhere under it all is a sweetness he'd long forgotten, a gentle, quiet kind of affection. Salvation, maybe. Forgiveness.

They stay like that for long moment, time seemingly slowed to a crawl around them.  
  
Peter pulls away, gasping. Quentin sees his glazed eyes and his damp red lips and is slammed back into reality like he's been dropped from a skyscraper. He's gone too far. The kid can't like him, not like this. It's _his_ fault this time and the feeling is like a millstone in his stomach.  
  
Peter's already moving back in but Quentin stops him. He takes a sharp breath, running his tongue over his bottom lip and cringing at the bitter remnants of cheap beer.  
  
"No" he says, simply. He can't afford to say anymore because the beer and the kid and the lingering taste on his breath are going to out him and the kid will run and never, ever look back.  
  
It's what Quentin deserves, yes, but he doesn't want it.  
  
The team flies back to New York after Peter and Quentin calls it off. Another time, he says. Fury's suspicious, he says. We need more time for a new attack, he says.   
  
It's lies, all lies, and the team doesn't believe him but they obey anyway and he knows they're not coming back, not to him. They've seen he's weak, and there's nothing left to lose now so he meets Peter in a park near the city.  
  
He almost laughs at the look on Peter's face when he sees him in civilian clothes. The kid is finally suspicious, and how ironic is it that he finally has no need to be.  
  
"Hey, Peter" Quentin says, and Peter relaxes just slightly. The grip on his backpack straps loosens, and color returns to his pale skin.  
  
"Hi, Mr...Quentin" he says, sitting on the bench. He looks concerned, like Quentin's the one in trouble, like Quentin's the one who's been wronged, and Quentin hates it so he clenches his fists (they feel strange without the fake wedding band) and begins, "Peter, I..."  
  
For a moment he thinks about continuing the lie. Saying the team had tricked him, or he'd been trying to test Peter, or any other nonsense he's grown accustomed to shelling out.  
  
But he doesn't say any of that.   
  
Instead, he tells the truth.   
  
It's relieving and terrifying all at once and Quentin learns there's some accuracy in the famous saying "the truth hurts".  
  
"I've been lying to you. Using you. To get revenge on Tony Stark"  
  
Peter stares, tight-lipped and jaw clenched. Quentin wants to run but he refuses, waiting for the rest of his lies to come crashing down around him.  
  
"What?" Peter whispers, his voice nearly lost in the rustling of the tree leaves overhead.  
  
So Quentin tells him the whole story. He tells Peter about BARF and Obadiah and the team and the drones and Peter listens, not saying anything.  
  
"I'm so sorry, Peter. I really am. And you don't have to see me again. But you deserved to know" Quentin explains.  
  
But as he goes to stand, Peter grabs his arm. The callouses on his fingertips rasp against the soft skin of his wrist and he stops.  
  
"Mr. Stark...Tony...he wasn't perfect. I know that, Quentin. I'm not stupid"  
  
Quentin breathes, and sits back down. Peter's not quite meeting his gaze, but his hand is still around Quentin's wrist. He places his hand over Peter's, and the boy (hardly, Quentin thinks to himself) stares at him with wide eyes.  
  
"Believe me, I know" Quentin says, his laughter pained and quiet. "I can't believe I thought I could fool you"  
  
To his surprise, Peter laughs, too.   
  
"I can't believe you didn't" he says. "Why?"  
  
Quentin forces the words back into his chest, because what's one more white lie?  
  
"I guess I was tired of lying"  
  
"Was it all a lie?" Peter asks softly, twisting his fingers together and not meeting Quentin's eye.  
  
"I...I don't know" Quentin says. He's lying again, but maybe this time it's for the best because Peter deserves better than Stark and better than him. But it's still a lie and it sinks in his throat, knotting hard and angry against his heart.  
  
"Oh" Peter says, smiling weakly. "No idea?"  
  
Quentin shrugs. The lies are getting heavy, but Peter doesn't need to know. Not now, not ever.  
  
But Peter is nothing if not resilient.  
  
"You're still lying, aren't you?"  
  
"Maybe" Quentin replies, and it's meant to be teasing but his voice betrays him and the word comes out hollow and uncertain.   
  
Peter gazes at him through long lashes and leans closer. Quentin's heart leaps into his throat and he turns his face away. Not now. Never again.   
  
Peter pulls back, trying to hide his intentions. "What will you do now?" he mutters.  
  
Quentin shrugs. "Go to my old job, I guess. The one I got after Stark fired me"  
  
Peter smiles. For once, it's not so tired and strained as Quentin had seen it in the past. He's so _good_ and Quentin almost hates him.  
  
Almost.  
  


* * *

  
Two weeks later his old gang comes back, raiding the company building with the stolen tech from their short partnership with SHIELD.   
  
At least that's what Quentin gathers from the panicked cries and curious murmurs as he runs through the hallway, several coworkers behind him.   
  
He knows they're after him but he's not about to sacrifice himself for this. Not when he'd gotten everything back together, not when he deserved -   
  
There's gunfire from the floor beneath him and he knows Spider-Man's here. The gang starts to make their way up the stairs, so he ducks into a meeting room, crouching behind one of the chairs.  
  
His heart pounds and he wonders if this is how the people in Rome and Berlin felt, wondering if they were next, if their last moments would be in fire or water.  
  
The door to the meeting room crashes open and two of the group have him by the arms in a second. He tries to yank away but the gun pointed between his eyes is enough to convince him to freeze.  
  
"Nice going, just ditching us all like that" someone says.  
  
Quentin doesn't reply, because all this is his fault, and he's so tired of fighting. He's going to die, and he waits for the bullet in his skull. He wonders if hell is nice this time of year. He wonders if he'll see Stark there.  
  
The pain sears through his shoulder and he screams, falling to the ground as blood blossoms through his shirt but he's _alive_ and he looks up through shaky vision to see Spider-Man's webbing yank the gun from the masked man's grasp and toss it to the side. His vision blurs and he can't quite make out what Spider-Man's doing but before long there's an arm around his chest and he's being swung to safety through the open window like some distressed damsel.  
  
They stop on a back street, away from cameras and newsmen and onlookers. Quentin leans again the graffiti-stained brick, and the pain doesn't seem so bad now.  
  
Peter yanks off his mask and stares for a moment, terrified.  
  
Quentin swallows hard, and he tastes bile in the back of his throat.  
  
"Kid, I - "  
  
Peter grabs his jaw in his hands and kisses him again, clumsy and foolish like in the Berlin alleyway, but now there's a certainty to it, a trust that Quentin doesn't deserve and never will. And yet he chases the kiss and its honey-sweet citrus promise. He pulls Peter against himself and rests his good hand on his hipbone.  
  
He's guilty, guilty as he's always been but he just closes his eyes tighter and pretends they're somewhere romantic with sand and a sunset instead of a backwater New York road as he bleeds out onto the pavement.  
  
"Don't die" Peter says. "It's not fair, you - "  
  
Quentin barks out a dry laugh. "Oh, it's fair. But honestly, I pictured something more epic. Like a lava monster"  
  
He tries to smile but even that seems to tire him so his rests his head on Peter's shoulder and waits.   
  
Peter's voice is frantic, but Quentin doesn't notice.  
  


* * *

  
His first though is that hell is far brighter and nicer-smelling than he'd always thought. There's a window and a bookshelf and the sheets smell like green tea and leather.  
  
He moves to stand but pain sears through his arm and he yells.   
  
"Good, you're awake" says the man who appears suddenly beside him, and if Quentin wasn't in the business of trickery he'd have been far more surprised. The man looks like a wizard in an old storybook and Quentin briefly recalls seeing his face somewhere, not long ago.  
  
"Dr. Stephen Strange. Pleasure. Now, your injuries are still healing, so I suggest you stay in bed" the wizard says, and Quentin only nods.  
  
"I take it I'm not dead, then?" he asks cautiously.  
  
Stephen raises an eyebrow. "You sound disappointed"  
  
He is, but there's no point in saying it now. "What happened?"  
  
"You were shot. The nerve damage was severe. If Peter hadn't gotten you to me so soon, the arm would probably have been useless" Stephen explains.  
  
Quentin winces, and he remembers the way Peter had held him, almost affectionately, and feels sick again.  
  
"Lucky for you, most of your arm still works" the doctor continues.  
  
Another sharp pang runs down Quentin's arm and he bites his lip. "Most?"  
  
Stephen just vanishes before reappearing with a tray from another room, balancing several cups and a teapot on it. "The joints still work. Elbow, wrist, shoulder. But your hand's done for"  
  
Quentin tries to raise his arm and move his fingers to prove he's _fine_ and he didn't just have his newly-reassembled life snatched from him but even as he rotates his wrist over and over he can't get his fingers to respond. They only twitch uselessly.  
  
Stephen watches sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Beck"  
  
And Quentin wants to be angry, but he's also so tired of being angry so he's only says, "Yeah. Yeah, me too," and accepts the teacup Stephen offers him with his still-functioning hand.  
  
He drinks and he can't taste anything. He wonders if there's been nerve damage to his brain, too. Or maybe it's the shock.  
  
The buzzer rings and Stephen turns, adjusting his cloak. "Excuse me" he says, and Quentin doesn't watch him go. Instead, he stares at his exhausted reflection in his tea.  
  
He can hear voices from the foyer and he knows Peter's arrived. The sound travels well in the cavernous building but he can still only make out bits of conversation.  
  
" - anything you can do?" says Peter, high and frantic.   
  
Stephen's answer must have been no, because Peter's next words are even more frustrated.   
  
"Not even the - "  
  
"He's not ready for that, Peter" Stephen interrupts, and if Quentin didn't know better he's have thought Stephen sounded disappointed.  
  
"But - "  
  
Stephen says something else, too muffled for Quentin to make out. Peter's reply is also dampened, but not long after Quentin hears footsteps as the pair makes their way up the foyer stairs.  
  
He doesn't want to see Peter, not now, because he knows the kid will stare at him with pity in those big brown eyes and he can't _stand_ pity.  
  
But Peter only stands behind Stephen, silent. Quentin knows he should be relieved, but all he feels is a cold ache in his throat.  
  
Stephen clears his throat.  
  
"Mr. Beck" he begins, "I have an offer for you"  
  
"Is it my bill?" Quentin asks dryly, and Stephen's scathing annoyance is worth the tiny smile the comment elicits from Peter.  
  
"No. It's a chance. The same chance that was offered to me, years ago" Stephen explains, blinking across the room and placing a book in Quentin's hand. It's older, and the gold title stamped on the cover is flaking away. Still, Quentin can make out the title: Introduction to the Mystic Arts: Volume 1.  
  
He raises an eyebrow. "Is this a joke?"  
  
Taking a seat across from him, Stephen folds his hands in his lap and leans forward, eyes searching Quentin's intently.  
  
"I do not joke, Mr. Beck. Parker vouched for you, and I consider that enough to warrant giving you a chance. It won't be easy. But you might find the makings of a hero in you somewhere" he says, voice slow and grave.  
  
Quentin swallows, his gaze dropping to the floor, unable to counter Stephen's intense stare. He's heard stories of these mystic arts that Stephen knows. They take years to learn and still more to perfect. They're dangerous, and a mere few months ago he'd have leaped at the chance but now he can feel Peter's hopeful smile on him and he hesitates.  
  
"I'm...not sure" he says.  
  
With a sigh, Stephen rises and turns, his cloak sweeping melodramatically behind him. "Fine. Let me know when you make up your mind"  
  
The heavy library door slams behind him and Quentin is left alone with Peter. The kid rushes to his side, placing a hand on his good shoulder.  
  
"Quentin, why - "  
  
He stands, shrugging away from Peter in the process. "Let's go for a walk" he says.  
  
Peter's got that disappointed puppy look but he nods, shouldering his backpack.   
  
It's spring so the sun hasn't quite begun to set when they step out into the street but the light has started to fade to a reddish glow.   
  
Peter leads the way, not saying much.   
  
Quentin follows, trying to say something, but even after years of learning to say exactly what he needs to get what he wants, the words he tries to tell Peter get caught in his throat and he wonders if it's because they'll never get him what he wants now.  
  
They end up on a fire escape in a secluded part of Peter's neighborhood, overlooking a fairly empty street. Peter retrieves a cola from his backpack and they sit in silence for a long moment as their shadows stretch out into the hazy golden light on the street.  
  
"Why don't you wanna do it?" Peter asks finally.  
  
Quentin pauses. There's a dozen lies already on the tip of his tongue but he swallows them down, saccharine in their comfort, and he's left with only the bittersweet truth, the ones he's known all along.  
  
_I don't deserve a second chance._  
  
_I'm not good._  
  
_You deserve better._  
  
_I like you, I think._  
  
But he only says, "I'm not a hero"  
  
Peter shrugs, his legs swinging slight over the side of the railing. "Neither was I"  
  
Quentin wants to laugh because the benefit of being bad is it's so much easier to see good and he knows Peter's always been a hero, but the laughter sticks in his chest as Peter eyes him sideways, almost precociously.   
  
"Neither was Tony"  
  
Quentin clenches his jaw for a moment as anger surges through him but it's gone as quickly as it came. Now it's only something like regret, and he remembers the five years and the misery around him and the day the world righted itself and his dog was waiting for him again that morning.  
  
He remembers the way Peter's eyes light up when he talks about Stark like the father he never had, like the friend he could trust with his life, with the lives of the universe.   
  
He knows he'll never be the next Iron Man. Maybe he wouldn't even want to. Neither will Peter. But maybe Peter's wrong about one thing. The world doesn't need an Iron Man, not anymore. Not yet.  
  
And suddenly it all makes sense.  
  
Peter's still watching his face intently, and as Quentin takes a breath and meets his eyes, he slips a hand into his and they stay just like that, hand in hand as the sun sets and their shadows fade into the dim twilight.  
  
"I'm ready"  
  
Peter smiles, only slightly smug, and Quentin knows where he gets it from but he can't be angry anymore.   
  
They walk back to Stephen's, and he's already waiting at the door, annoyed but pleased, too, patting Peter on the back as they enter.  
  
"Took you long enough" he says.  
  


* * *

  
"So, college?"  
  
Peter groans, flopping back in the metal chair. "Don't wanna talk about it" he says. "What about you? How's the hand treating you?"  
  
Quentin flexes his fingers. It's still an odd sensation after all this time, a phantom limb of some sort. "Not too bad" he says, reaching out to ruffle Peter's curls.   
  
"The getup suits you" he admits, grinning wickedly. "All theatrical and stuff"  
  
Quentin shrugs. He's gotten used to the odd looks, and anyway, the robes are too comfortable to complain. "Strange let me keep the cape. Clasps and all" he says, pointing to the golden eyes clipped to his top.  
  
"Oh, fancy!" Peter laughs.  
  
Quentin joins him and the couple at the table next to them stares bemusedly, trying to pretend they aren't.  
  
And when they can speak again, they swap stories. Peter talks about classes and projects and football games, and even if they pale in comparison to Quentin's (_slightly_ exaggerated) tales of alternate dimensions and portals to the other side of the world, Peter tells them with such vibrant delight that it's Quentin's stories that become dull.  
  
Peter listens to them anyway with rapt attention, and it's started to snow when they begin their walk back to Stephen's place. Quentin watches, entranced, as the flakes catch on Peter's hair and eyelashes and when the kid pushes himself onto his toes to kiss him, soft and hesitant, he pulls him closer and feels the cold against his cheekbone as Peter's eyes flutter closed.  
  
Peter leaves, and Quentin knows he's blushing under the street lights just as he had all that time ago in Berlin. He wonders if it's love.  
  
Maybe it doesn't matter, he decides. He has time now, and there's plenty to spend with Peter.  
  
The sun fully sets and Quentin stands outside for a few more moments, listening to the quiet rush of traffic in the distance as the snow continues to fall.

**Author's Note:**

> In this house, we are DONE with using untreated mental illness to make villains.
> 
> I call this AU: Dr. Strange and Mr. Beck™
> 
> It's sympathy for the devil, but I don't care


End file.
